Together In Blood
by Kelliestar
Summary: Under Medusa's hand, competition amongst siblings can be a torturous, if not maddening, experience. Unfortunately for Crona, he's about to learn the hard way that certain rivalries shouldn't be overlooked. Rated M for violence and some disturbing content.
1. Chapter 1: Brothers

**A/N: Hey, Kelliestar here to warn you guys that TV Tropes Will Ruin Your Life indeed. One day while scrolling through the Soul Eater Just Bugs Me page, I came across this little question:**

**"Just who was Ragnarok before being melted into black blood?"**

**One disturbing image later, THIS is my answer. ^^ So thank you, whoever asked that question, for bringing me to write this (possibly) five to ten chapter fanfic. **

**...And I _will_ return to my other one. Eventually.**

**Props to OriginalAlienSuperspy for beta reading this. You rock.**

**

* * *

**

Chapter 1:

Brothers

* * *

The water was lukewarm against his skin, his small, frail body pruned and huddled together against the bathtub wall. He watched behind matted pink bangs as the water distorted his nervously wiggling toes, his chin resting between his knees. The bathroom was quiet and dimly lit, flaming candles flickering nearby solely for his mother's tastes. She had not returned for quite some time, perhaps an hour or so. She was far too busy, or simply disinterested, to bathe her two sons herself; rather, she expected them to bathe each other, although the younger would usually come out crying while the bratty elder pointed at him and shouted raspy accusations of "He started it!" It was for this reason in particular Crona hated bath time.

"Come on!" gruffed an impatient voice beside him. "Are you gonna do it or not?"

Crona turned to his near identical brother, a slightly taller boy with shaggy black hair and two jagged stitches crossing his face, meeting as an X on the bridge of his nose.

"I-I don't know about this, Ragnarok," he quietly muttered, shying away and staring at his toes again. "What if it happens like last time?"

"God, you're such a pussy!" Ragnarok growled, slapping Crona's shoulder. "I told you it didn't work because you got scared! If you wanna learn to breathe underwater, you gotta not be scared and trust your gut!"

"But my gut doesn't want me to do that!" he whimpered. "It just wants food and I haven't eaten in three days because of you!"

"That's because you're picky as hell!" the other snapped. "I leave you the peas, don't I?"

"I don't like peas!"

"Too bad!" Ragnarok pushed Crona's head underwater, avoiding his flailing arms. "Now get to it or I'll steal your dinner again!"

Crona responded with panicked, high-pitched gurgles, only to be saved by Ragnarok pulling him back up by his hair. "O-Okay, I'll do it!"

"Tch." Ragnarok crossed his arms, leaning against the tub. "Baby."

Crona pouted angrily and hesitantly looked back down at the water. Lord knows how much dirt was swimming around in there, especially if he had to share it with his much filthier brother. If there was dirt, there was bound to be germs. Germs were bad. They got you sick, and they could get you sick in a variety of ways. If he breathed them in, he could catch a virus, or cancer, or end up like those leopards Ragnarok always told him about, wandering around in the street while their skin turned green and their body parts fell off. Then vultures would follow him around and eat the trail of rotting remains. Which would be worse to lose first? If he lost his toes first, he probably wouldn't be able to walk. If he lost his fingers, he wouldn't be able to feed himself or tie his shoes or hold a blanket when it was cold. If he lost his ears, he couldn't hear, and if he lost his eyes, he couldn't see. Well, maybe he'd be able to see the vultures eating his eyes peck by peck, maybe even watch as each small, shriveled-up piece of his eyeballs were slowly digested in the vultures' stomach. Wait, was that possible? Perhaps. He didn't know. Maybe it was best if he lost his nose first to the vultures. But then he couldn't smell. Or breathe. On the other hand, he could always breathe through his mouth, and losing the ability of smell wasn't so bad. He wouldn't be able to smell his own homeless, decaying stench. Yes, he decided. If he became a leopard after this, the first thing he would sacrifice was his nose, then he would never catch a cold again and—

"HURRY UP!" Ragnarok yelled, snapping Crona out of his thoughts.

"S-Sorry!"

"God!"

He looked down at the water again, heart pounding in his chest. Dirt and germs. Dirt and leopard germs. Dirt and leopard germs swirling around in the water. It won't be that bad. It would only be for a few seconds, and if it worked this time, he wouldn't have to be scared of breathing under water again. Okay. Here it goes. Squeezing his eyes shut, he slid his head under the surface of the water, his hair wafting about freely, only for his eyes to shoot back open.

_Eee! It's in my ears! And now it's in my eyes! I don't wanna do this anymore!_

Despite the unpleasant sensation of eyes stinging and pressure in his ears, Crona pulled his fists to his chest and willed himself to stay under. He couldn't hold his breath for very long. It had only been a few seconds and he was already dizzy. He had to breathe soon, and that time was coming. He was gonna do it. He was gonna be brave. Clenching his teeth, he deeply and quickly inhaled through his nose, the surge of the rushing water flowing up his nasal cavities immediately resulting in a horrible headache.

He shot up out of the water and clutched his nose, coughing violently as Ragnarok laughed hysterically at his pain. "It hurts! It hurts!"

Ragnarok pointed riotously at Crona, his cackles bouncing off the bathroom walls. "You dumbass! You actually thought being brave would work this time?"

Crona glared at him through bloodshot eyes. "You lied to me, Ragnarok!"

"I was lying the first time I told you!" he wheezed, hugging his quaking stomach. "I didn't think you'd fall for it twice!"

"I'm telling Mother!" Crona warned, standing up and kicking water in Ragnarok's face. "Then you'll be in big trouble!"

"Hey!" Ragnarok splashed water back, standing up. "S'not my fault you believe everything I say!"

Crona inched away from him, having forgotten he only reached his chest in height standing up. "W-Well . . . you're a butthead!"

"Better than being a freak!" Ragnarok jeered, pointing between Crona's legs. "I mean, what the hell _is_ that thing? I bet you're not even human if you were born like that!"

"Stop it!" Crona demanded, covering himself and blushing fervently. "I hate when you point that out!"

"You probably don't even know what you are!" Ragnarok continued, smirking as he regained superiority. "How do you even know if you're a boy?"

"I said stop it!" Crona repeated, eyes watering.

"Make me!" Ragnarok challenged, shoving Crona back into the water.

Crona yelped as he fell backward, hitting his head against the hard porcelain edge of the tub. He let out a cry of pain and burst into tears as his hands gingerly touched his crown. Blood colored his fingertips red, but despite the pain, he couldn't help but probe the injury, letting out squeaks as he dug through bristles of hair to feel the small wound. Ragnarok growled in frustration at his younger sibling, cursing at him and calling him a crybaby when the sound of the door unlocking silenced them both.

The door swung open to reveal their hooded young mother, her scowling face half concealed by shadow as her braid sat on her breast. The room turned deathly quiet, both boys feeling their faces pale and body warmth drop to a dangerous degree. Even Ragnarok cowered, fearfully huddling in the corner opposite Crona.

"What's going on in here?" Medusa asked, her voice at an eerie level of calm.

Neither brother spoke up, wishing for nothing except each other's embrace. This mutual wish may have been fulfilled if not for the fact that one was too stubborn to show any affection towards the other and the other was afraid of mere touch.

"I thought I heard noise," Medusa said. "Did I hear noise? Crona? Ragnarok?"

Still nothing. Her sons exchanged nervous glances, debating which would receive a worse punishment: keeping quiet or speaking up.

Their hearts nearly stopped as they saw her approach the tub. "Both of you. Up."

They stumbled to get to their feet before she could ask a second time, standing before her shoulder-to-shoulder. The silence that followed felt to them like the long wait before an execution, strapped to the chair as the executioner's hand rested heavily on the power switch. She returned the sentiment, staring at them like an executioner would his victim, but with much, much less pity. They didn't get a chance to blink before she shoved her hands down their throats, her fingertips resting on small, sensitive bumps under their uvulas.

"If I was one to assume," she said, taking delight in their horrified expressions, "I would think you two were defying me."

Their eyes bulged out their sockets, unable to breath as their throats spasmed against Medusa's long black nails. Of all punishments, this one perhaps frightened them the worst. They couldn't move, they couldn't whine, they couldn't even grab her wrists to stop her lest she push her hands down further, or worse.

"Luckily for you, I do not assume." She pulled her hands out of their mouths, wiping the saliva on her cloak as the two gagged and gasped for breath, a thin string of vomit stretching down from Crona's lip. "Now, talk."

The two briefly patted their chests in alarm, trying to decipher if the squiggly feeling they felt was fear or hundreds of snakes taking residence in their bodies. As was tradition, Ragnarok was the first to point fingers. "_He_ started it!"

"No I didn't!" the accused protested, although Ragnarok rambled on.

"He called me a liar and a butthead! And then he kicked water in my face!"

"You're the one that made me breathe the water in the first place!" Crona fired back.

"I didn't make you," Ragnarok yelled, "you just did it on your own!"

"You said you'd steal my dinner if I didn't!" Crona yelled back. "Then you laughed and called me a dumbass when I started choking!"

"I always steal your dinner anyway, stupid!"

"You're stupid!"

"You are!"

Medusa quickly ended the sibling spat by knocking their heads together, sighing in annoyance. "Forget I asked. Both of you, put some clothes on and get to bed. No dinner for either of you tonight."

Crona clutched his growling stomach, his ribs just beginning to poke out of his body. "But –"

"Now."

The young duo groaned in agony and climbed out of the bathtub, the former slipping on spilt water and falling on his face with a squeak. With a huff, Ragnarok pulled him back to his feet by his hair and dragged him out of the bathroom.

Only the dysfunctional trio lived in the expansive mansion. At times it seemed a bit ridiculous to have such a small unit in a secluded ten-bedroom abode, especially when the children would frequently get lost looking for their mother when she beckoned. Rather than simply look for a smaller home, however, Medusa preferred to flaunt her riches, even though she had no audience to awe. During the night, it would grow quiet, leaving any slight sound susceptible to loud echoes. That night, the light slapping of small bare feet on marble flooring, followed by the drips of clinging bathtub water, provided melody for Crona and Ragnarok as they made their way to their room.

"Quit clinging to me!" Ragnarok snapped, trying to twist Crona off his arm. "You're gonna make me trip!"

"B-But I'm cold!" Crona stammered, hugging Ragnarok tight.

Ragnarok wrapped an arm around Crona's head and jammed his fingers up his nose, triggering a response of agitated squealing and flailing arms. "Then you should've brought a towel with you!"

"Ow, ow , okay, I'm sorry!"

"Mmm." He dropped Crona onto the floor and wiped his fingers on himself, frowning as soon as he heard Crona run after him again.

The two siblings ducked under a spiraling flight of stairs, Ragnarok kicking a loose tile with his heel. He pushed Crona back a few steps and knelt down to lift it from the floor, digging his nails into the cracks. The tile shook, but neither corner reared up. "Shit. It's stuck again."

"What do we do now?"

After another tug, Ragnarok let out a pained cry and gripped his hand, biting his lip to silence himself. "What we always do, moron." In a bright flash, Ragnarok was now a black sword in Crona's hands, speaking to him through thick red lips on its hilt. "Pry it out."

Crona stumbled to hold Ragnarok up in his weapon form, letting the blade clang against the floor, nearly chopping his toes off.

"Jesus Christ, use your knees."

"R-Right . . ." Crona carefully knelt down and gripped the hilt, still stumbling a bit as he lifted Ragnarok long enough to drop him into the crevice separating the loose tile from its better secured companions. He chiseled along each side to better free the tile, earning some complaints from the sword as he went along.

"Hey, hey, easy!" Ragnarok spat. "I'm not a pickaxe!"

"Sorry!" Crona leveled the sword and lifted the tile from its base, flinging it into the darker depths under the staircase. He dropped Ragnarok into the small room beneath them, carefully easing himself inside before landing on his feet. Behind him, he heard the human Ragnarok cursing, kneeling and clutching his hand to his chest. He hesitantly approached him, trying to see over his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Without turning to Crona, he showed him his index finger. Half his fingernail was ripped off, the tip of his finger drenched in black blood.

Crona winced at the sight, a chill going up his spine. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, whatever." Ragnarok pushed himself back up and searched through the dark for their clothes. "It'll heal."

The coldest room in the Gorgon house was the furnace room. Prior to Medusa moving in, many families didn't know a furnace room was present, as its entrance was bricked up, but thanks to her two children snooping around the house, the room was discovered and became their new bedroom. To a stranger, it could've easily been mistaken for a laundry room, had it not been for the fact Medusa owned neither washing machine nor dryer. Instead, the two small crates filled with pillows close to the furnace itself were their beds, and a pile of clothes gathered against a wall were their clothes for each day. A stepstool lay on its side, abandoned for most of the day until the boys used it to leave the room, and a foul smelling pail in the farthest corner of the room was better left untouched.

Crona hoisted himself on the crate bed, yawning and stretching his arms over his head before Ragnarok threw his dress in his face. "Get dressed. You'll catch a cold."

Crona sleepily nodded, pulling the dress over his head. "Right."

Ragnarok squirmed a little in his black pants to assure himself they still fit, then proceeded to button up a clergy shirt, pulling a clerical collar out of his pants pocket and snapping it onto his neck. "I swear, you'd be dead if I wasn't around to tell you where to step."

"I know," Crona quietly murmured, rubbing his eye and snuggling into the pillows beneath him.

Ragnarok hopped onto his own bed, rolling onto his back and letting his legs hang out as he supported his head. "Night."

"Ragnarok?"

"What?"

Crona pushed himself up a little, staring at his brother's dirty feet mere inches from his nose. "E-Even though I breathed in the water, I'm not gonna be a leopard, right?"

After a brief silence of confusion, Ragnarok pushed himself to a sitting position. "_What_?

"A leopard," Crona repeated. "I'm not gonna get sick and turn into a leopard right?"

Another pause followed, Ragnarok's face twisted in bewilderment before he simply rolled his eyes and turned on his side. "It's pronounced _leper_, dumbass." He kicked Crona's face before tucking his legs into the crate. "Now go to sleep."

Rubbing his nose, Crona rolled into a fetal position in the crate, hugging his head as he drifted off to sleep. The furnace room was cold, and neither child had a blanket.


	2. Chapter 2: Assignment

Chapter 2

Assignment

* * *

Ragnarok woke to the sound of Crona mumbling in his sleep, the room pitch black. Medusa must have found the tile overnight. They never sealed themselves in, for the sake of a light source. The seven-year-old weapon yawned loudly and flopped on his back, arcing himself as he curled and uncurled his fingers and toes. He sat up and shook his head to better wake himself, but all it did was make him dizzy. His legs hung over the side of the crate, his toes barely touching the concrete floor. He couldn't even see his feet to reassure himself this _was_ the furnace room and not . . . well . . . someplace else.

He edged himself off the crate and let his feet touch the floor. Ice cold as always. Standing up, he took a cautionary glance towards Crona's vague silhouette. "Hey. Hey stupid."

He jumped when he saw Crona move, but relaxed as he realized he was only rolling over. "Don't lock the door, Mother . . . I don't know how to deal with the dark . . ."

Ragnarok sighed and shook his head. They dealt with it long enough, he should be used to it. Quietly, he felt through the pillows of the crate and threw them on the floor, half-emptying it before his fingers bumped against a hard surface. He felt for its handle and pulled out the black first aid kit, the aged sticker torn and peeling from years of use and misuse. His sight had adjusted to the darkness, allowing him to search for the stepstool, but it still wasn't strong enough to keep him from tripping over its legs and dropping the kit, its contents clattering against the floor and rolling away from him.

All the while, Crona snoozed. Thank God he was a heavy sleeper.

Ragnarok felt around for the spilled supplies, crawling on his knees until his fingers touched something waxy. He wrapped his hand around the red candle, feeling around until he found a box of matches, which hadn't been disturbed. Setting up the stool, he picked out a match and swiped it down the stool's leg, the match hissing as it reflected in Ragnarok's gray eyes. He touched the fire to the candle's wick, waving the match until its flame died and dropping it on the ground. Holding up the candle, he scanned the floor for the kit's tools, putting everything back until only the arm strap and one syringe remained.

He pulled up his left sleeve and put his arm on the seat of the stool, tying the strap an inch above his elbow with his free hand and his teeth. He picked up the syringe by his leg and opened the cap, grunting as he drove the needle into the crook of his arm. As directed by Medusa, he counted to ten in his mind as he slowly pulled back the plunger, the vial filling with black blood. The melting candle wax dripped down his hand, burning his vulnerable skin and touching the sensitive exposed flesh of the ripped fingernail. He glared up at the blissfully unaware Crona, back turned to him as he mumbled to himself. Why didn't _he_ have to go through this? How come _he_ didn't have to get all the blood in his body replaced with some black crap Medusa made? He wasn't special, what excuse did he have?

Crona coughed, squirming a little before resting again.

Ten. He pulled the needle out, resulting in a squirting noise and a small pool of blood forming on his arm. He did his best to cap the syringe with one hand before digging around the kit for a cotton ball and a bandage, simultaneously undoing the arm strap with his teeth again. If Crona didn't have to go through this himself, he didn't want his little brother to see him plunging a needle from God knows where into his arm. His head would make a loud thud if he fainted. It took a bit of time with one arm, but he managed to get the bandage on just fine, if not a little blood soaked and about ready to peel off. Matter of fact, it looked as if he poured a bucket of oil all over his arm. And the stool. Whatever. Clean wasn't his thing. He tucked the capped syringe into his pocket and pulled his sleeve back down, returning to put the kit under his pillows when, suddenly, his eyes shot open.

What time was it?

His blood turning ice cold, he piled the pillows sloppily over the kit and clumsily stood the stool up, stumbling on top of it and throwing the tile off its base. He pulled himself over the ledge just enough to rest his chin on the marble, suffocating himself as he laid his eyes on the clock six yards across the room.

7:22 AM.

"FUCK!" He fell back on the stool with a loud crash, startling Crona awake. He flung himself at the pile of clothes on the wall and tossed them about, looking for his shoes.

"Wh-Wha-What's going on?" Crona whimpered, trembling and hugging his pillow.

Ragnarok threw Crona's shoes at him, one hitting his cheek, the other hitting the back wall. "We're late for the lesson!" He pulled his own shoes on, which were surprisingly white for a boy of his untidiness. "Medusa's gonna kill us if we don't hurry up!"

"O-Oh!" Crona shakily put his shoes on, falling off the crate when he tried to reach for the one on the floor.

"Urrgh!" Ragnarok rushed to Crona and pushed him onto his bottom as he tried to put on his left loafer. "Let me do it!"

"Okay . . ." His bottom was sore now, but he didn't bother to mention it.

Ragnarok slapped the heel of Crona's shoe to make sure it fit in, grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him onto his feet. "Come on!"

He half-dragged Crona to the stool, having to stand on it with him because he still wasn't tall enough to reach the ledge on his own. He cupped his hands and carefully kneeled down, letting Crona step into them and grab his hair for balance, which he hated because this process never ended without a handful of Ragnarok's hair in Crona's hand. Heaving him up, he felt the typical pain of getting his hair ripped off his scalp, followed by the customary chin-kicking that was Crona trying to squirm up out of the exit.

"I-I can't pull myself up!" he whined, kicking harder.

Not about to lose his front teeth, he pushed up Crona by his behind, the sound of Crona hitting his head against the floor knocking above him. He lifted himself out of the exit and quickly sealed it, running ahead of Crona and down the hall between the house's twin staircases. Behind him he heard Crona shouting at him to wait, the younger boy always the slow runner. The sound of their footsteps bounced off the narrow walls as the ballroom entrance grew before them. Blinding white walls contrasting the black and white floor surrounded their mother, arms folded across her chest. She waited for them in the middle of the room, this time her hood down instead of their nocturnal resting place on her head.

The two boys sprinted towards her, furiously elbowing the other to get ahead, before skidding to an awkward stop, Ragnarok loudly sliding on his shoes and Crona landing flat on his face. Medusa merely watched with a frown as Ragnarok pulled him up by his hair, eliciting a squeak of pain before both brothers stood ramrod straight like recruits before their commander. "Good morning, Mother!"

As always, Medusa was not pleased by their performance. "You're late." She laid her eyes on the pink-haired boy, who faltered under her cold glare. "Aren't you usually the more responsible sibling, Crona?"

Crona trembled, fighting off the urge to hold Ragnarok for protection. "I-I'm s-s-sorry . . ."

"Sorry," the witch interjected, "is no excuse for tardiness."

"So-" Crona bit his tongue before he could finish, instead bowing before the young woman. "F-Forgive me, Mother."

Ragnarok snickered at his brother's weakness, set to spout a long train of insults when his mother loudly cleared her throat. He snapped back to attention and nervously looked up at her, shrinking under her cold gaze. She cocked a fine, unimpressed brow at her inky-haired son, one of two banes of her existence, the second being her intersexed child. "Well?"

Ragnarok quickly bowed, his once confidence voice reduced to a soft mumble. "Forgive me, Mother."

"Good. You may rise."

The two brothers stood back up, each looking up at the witch with anxiety and, somewhere under their collective fear, contempt. Medusa returned the sentiment, hoping these nuisances will come of use to her in their future. "You have an assignment today."

With a snap of her fingers, two large white boxes popped out of the floor before the siblings, both floating two feet above the floor. The two jumped back as they appeared, Crona's box slightly pushing him back and onto his bottom. Ragnarok snorted at his clumsiness and tossed his respective box at the floored child, eagerly opening the box labeled to him. Medusa had never given them anything – well, except scars – especially not Ragnarok. Maybe it was a reward for all their hard work. Maybe it was full of candy, or a cake or—

A large, dull gray bag stared back up at him, patched and torn hither and yon, its straps black and worn out from previous use in its life. The boy gave a questioning look to his mother, raising the bag by its strap. "The hell is this?"

"A backpack," she simply answered, choosing not to punish him for his ungratefulness. "If you open it, you'll find three pencils and a small folder with your name on it. The same goes for your sibling."

"For what?" He threw the backpack down, kicking it as it hit the floor. "We don't need this crap!"

"Today you do. At 7:30, I'll be dropping you off at Eleanor Roosevelt Elementary School. This will be your first experience at taking others' souls, so listen carefully. Do not acknowledge yourselves as meister and weapon, and do not make your mission obvious. You will have one week to kill at least twenty of your peers or there will be severe consequences for the both of you. Is that clear?"

A wide smile spread across Ragnarok's stitched face, his small heart eager for the thrill of mindless violence. Behind him, Crona's small heart fell to the pit of his stomach, a dread setting over him. "K- . . . Kill them?"

"Is that clear?"

Crona swallowed a hard lump in his throat and rose to his feet, Ragnarok nodding excitedly. "Yes, Mother."

"Good." She flicked her wrist, and just as fast as they appeared, the boxes popped out of existence. "Now out of my sight, get some breakfast."

The two bowed one last time before heading out of the ballroom, Crona hugging his backpack like a teddy bear as Ragnarok dragged his.

"Ragnarok."

The brunette boy tripped over his feet in surprise, catching the attention of the magenta-haired boy. A slight chill ran up his spine as he turned back to his mother. "Wh-What?"

"Don't you have something to give me?"

Ragnarok stood frozen in his place, his fingers brushing nervously against the syringe in his pocket. He remembered the results of the last blood test. Lying nude on the cold, metal table, the soft drone of the machine next to him. The oxygen mask tight against his face, the one blinding light in the room hovering mere inches over him. His arms, his legs, every last inch of his body numb, until . . .

"Commencing transfusion."

"R-Ragnarok?"

Shaking himself out of his flashback, he turned to Crona. His bright blue eyes were full concern, contrasting against Ragnarok's hard black ones. "Are you okay?"

Ragnarok quickly averted his eyes, staring at the floor in mild irritation and embarrassment for being pitied by his brother. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine . . ." He waved him away, unable to look him in the eye anymore. "Get outta here, get yourself something to eat."

He didn't turn back around, but he could feel Crona's eyes on him, questioning, wondering what on Earth he was hiding. "O-Okay . . ." The soft taps of his feet slowly faded behind him, the backpack jingling in Crona's arms.

He looked back up at his mother. Her arms were folded across her chest, tapping her fingers against her arm. "I'm waiting."

With a heavy sigh, Ragnarok pulled the syringe out of his pocket and dragged his feet toward Medusa, dropping the syringe in her hand. "How much longer do we have to keep doing this?"

Medusa's fingers tightened around the syringe, staring daggers at her mouthy little lab rat. "As long as it takes."


End file.
